Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Chilling Shivers to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
The last bus of the evening crept along the fog-bound road,
With a driver who was silent and a rusted, groaning load.
There were seven other passengers, all staring straight ahead,
In coats of long-forgotten cut, with faces white as lead.
I asked the man beside me where the route would end tonight,
He whispered, it has never ended, and it never brings the light.
The stops went by unnamed, and the windows blurred to grey,
And the fog pressed at the glass like a hand that wished to stay.
I pulled the cord in panic, and the bell rang but no sound,
And the driver's eyes looked up at me, black and hollow, round.
Now I ride among the seven, and I've learned to face the road,
For the last bus of the evening always has room for one more load.
Poet of Chilling Shivers · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
A late bus on a foggy road is a familiar loneliness. This poem turns that ride into a journey with no end, and turns the passengers into the ones who never got off.
“The last bus of the evening crept along the fog-bound road” with a silent driver. Seven passengers sit “staring straight ahead, in coats of long-forgotten cut, with faces white as lead.” Asked where the route ends, one whispers, “it has never ended, and it never brings the light.”
The stops are “unnamed” and “the fog pressed at the glass like a hand that wished to stay.” The speaker pulls “the cord in panic,” but “the bell rang but no sound,” and the driver’s eyes are “black and hollow, round.” The speaker now rides with the others, for the bus “always has room for one more load.”